


home, let me come home

by khlassique



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, americana to break all of the hearts, sibling angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:43:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khlassique/pseuds/khlassique





	home, let me come home

She only received one letter from him, that first winter. The city had been black ash and choked streets, parlors so warm that the air slid like sludge into her lungs. She was used to country air, so cold it could freeze a body solid while they slept unawares, so cold her bones were ice. Instead of thick wools; silks, cottons, inconsequential foreign cloth that felt like air, but choked her more than scarves ever could.

 _Bran woke, and cannot bear to live_. In her memories, her little brother would always be racing horses and climbing trees, boasting of the time he scaled the hay baled so high it was like a tower. She had kissed his brow before she left, tucked the woolen blanket up tight around his chin and whispered that she should scold him for frightening Mother like that. Robb had come to the doorway, her coat in hand, and was silent when she turned away from the bed. His thumb had swiped across her cheek, marring the clean track through her face powder, and her hand came up to feebly swipe it away, only to rest upon the offending extremity. It was rough from work, the wood carving he would do beside the fire at night, as if his hands ever rested he would go mad.

 _Mother does well, and wishes to inquire about your beau._ The last word bled out around the edges, the paper forced down into canyons, filled with words he would never have to say. Blonde, beautiful Joffrey, who had swept her off her feet with extravagance and charm to this choking city, turned out to have a tar black soul. Not that her brother hadn’t warned her in his own way, the way his fingers curled at the mention of his name, the snarl in his lip when she had lit up the room with a sparkle at her throat and the good news.

His discontent did nothing to discourage her because she was going to be a star, a shining golden star with a beau as golden as city lights themselves. But the star had been snuffed, and her golden glow dimmed to soft silver, the kind of light that struggles through heavy snow. However, her letters did nothing but say that she was doing well, thank you, tell Mother to enjoy the scarf she was sending in a separate package, don’t you _dare_ let Arya use it to strap up whatever gun she decided to perfect shooting that month, give the baby a kiss, and please write back, Robb, I do miss hearing the news from home.

And she would seal up the letters, lick the stamp and set it on the edge of her writing desk with a careful precision, covering up an ink stain she had made. There had been a set of bruises to match, blotchy fingerprints that reminded her to be more careful with her pen. The sight of the stain brought back an ache in her upper arm, a twinge of guilt and shame that made her think of twisted lips and clenched fingers. She should have listened.


End file.
